


Wanting

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Drunkenness, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-30
Updated: 2011-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-26 17:51:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the <a href="http://sister-wife.livejournal.com/7323.html">Poetry Prompts Fest 2011</a>.</p><p><i>Why should I keep telling you what I love, and whom?<br/>I am so dull and awkward, what difference would it make?<br/>Yet I can’t shut up. I’m like that mockingbird up on the<br/>bee-riddled pole at the corner of our easement.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Wanting

Sometimes, when there is wine on his breath and his eyes are glassy, he leans too close to her when he goes to whisper some bit of advice in her ear. His lips will brush the skin there, sending chills through Sansa’s body, the sensation queer but not exactly unpleasant. Petyr’s different in those moments. His control will slip, making him look younger than his years, giving him a vulnerability that she can’t bring herself to completely trust. It’s attractive and unsettling at the same time, a sight meant for her eyes only. It makes her wonder why he is so unguarded only around her, and what that may mean for her future.

On this particular winter night they are trapped by the snows, locked on their mountain. They had both drank too much, and her cheeks are warm, her movements clumsy. He grips her waist and pulls her too close, leans in to compliment her dress. Sansa straightens her back and tries to kill her interest, the fluttering desire that crops up more and more often and only leaves her confused and wanting. When he pulls back he fixates on a lock of her hair that has fallen out of her careful design. He winds it around his finger and she can’t quite stop her sharp intake of breath.

“I hate this color,” he slurs. Sansa dislikes it as well, the dull brown that washes out her skin. She nods and he pulls her hair, just lightly enough to make her heart skip.

“I always loved your mother’s hair,” he mutters, so low she’s not sure he realizes he’s speaking out loud. She closes her eyes, just for a moment, feeling a chill as the weight behind the statement washes over her, and yet she wishes for him to continue. He seems to want to, and she grips his wrist with one trembling hand, touching him for the first time that evening.

That movement, small as it was, seems to have broken something. He pulls back as if burned, and she has to grip the table behind her to keep from falling, her legs more uneasy than she thought. She studies his face and sees a flash of embarrassment there, before he quickly buries it. She wants to say something, wants him to break the silence, before he regains some control and the moment is lost. She reaches back out to him; he looks like a young boy, eyes downcast. Sansa had never seen him look quite so lost, and the sight is transfixing. At the touch of her hand Petyr looks at her as if he wishes to say something, but he suddenly turns, stumbles, and leaves the room.

She waits for three heartbeats before she collapses against the table again. Her whole body is tingling and she takes a calming breath, trying to order the confusion in her mind, striving for her own control.


End file.
